Poetry Is Ordinary Language Raised To The

Contrary To Slanderous Eastern Opinion, Much Of Iowa Is Not Flat, But Rolling Hills Country With A Lot Of Timber, A Handsome And Imaginative Landscape, Crowded With Constant Small Changes Of Scene And Full Of Little Creeks Winding With Pools Where Shiners, Crappies And Catfish Hover.

Touch Was Important. The Evening Of The Third Of July We Would Go Around The Neighborhood And Look At The Fireworks Others Had Bought, Taking Them Out Of The Brown Paper Sack And Handling Them Cautiously As If They Were Precious Stones. There Was Envy When We Saw Sacks With More In Them Than We Had.

I Knew About Holiness, Never Having Missed A Sunday-school Class Since I Started At Four Years. But If Jews Were Also Religious, How Could Our Neighbor With The Grease-grimy Shirt Use The Word 'damn' About Them?

When Your First Marriage Goes Into Tragedy, You Become Very Battle-scarred... I Even Thought Of Suicide. Luckily, I Had Known Some Happy Marriages.

Poetry Is Ordinary Language Raised To The Nth Power. Poetry Is Boned With Ideas, Nerved And Blooded With Emotions, All Held Together By The Delicate, Tough Skin Of Words.